Seige!
by So Everybody Dance
Summary: When Molly Dawes joins a section to recapture a small town in Helmand Province, she believes her CO when he tells her it's a quick mission. But things quickly go wrong. And when she comes across 2 section and Captain James, it becomes more complicated. Will they all get out?
1. Chapter 1

Molly smiled as the whirring rotors reached a peak and the Chinook went airborne. She always felt little stab of exhilaration when they lifted off on a new mission. Even that persistent nugget of doubt she'd cherished seemed to fade as they cleared the swirling dust of Camp Bastion and accelerated over Highway One towards the Helmand River.

The Private sitting opposite her grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. He seemed all right. Looking at the rest of the platoon, she could see from their sunburned faces and dust-raked uniforms that these men had already been on tour for a few months. Good. If things went pear shaped, she wanted some reliable soldiers around.

They were on their way to Kajazi, a small town on the other side of the Helmand, where a platoon of Brits had been forced to retreat to the administrative centre after the Taliban took over the surrounding buildings.

When she'd first heard about the mission, she'd hesitated, but Captain Newlish, her new, young CO had reassured her: "You'll only be there for a short time while we recapture the town. A couple of weeks at best." He sounded pretty certain it was a done deal.

But listening to the boys' banter as they loaded the Chinook, it seemed this operation was no cert. It sounded more like it was turning into a siege.

Molly looked out of her window to a town they were approaching. She wondered if it was anywhere near the Boss's FOB? He was out here in Musa Qala somewhere, but because of secrecy, and mainly because it was Charles, he'd refused to divulge where. Bloody typical of him!

She was just wondering why she couldn't see any jingly trucks or locals in the market when one of the boys shouted: "Look out! They've got an RPG!"

There was ping above her and the Chinook wobbled. Automatically she lowered her head. She could hear something wrong with the rotor. Christ! The pilot was fighting with the controls. If they went down in this village, even if they survived the crash, it'd probably be curtains!

"Keep right! Keep right! KEEP RIGHT!" she heard someone yelling, again and again, as the helicopter lurched downwards. Some pages from a notebook flapped noisily past her head and something hit her hard on the arm. There was more shouting from the cockpit and she heard a crump of fire in the distance. And just as she began to think it was going to be the end, they bumped to the ground and she landed on the floor, banging her head on one of the boys' knees.

There was a silence as everyone worked out if they were all right.

"He made it!" shouted Newlish. A cheer went up and she realised the pilot had managed to get them into the administrative centre and avoid landing amongst the enemy in the town.

Above her the squaddie gave her a playful shove. "You all right medic?" He grinned at the other boys: "Or would you like to stay down there with your head between my legs, darlin'?"

"Fuck off you toss pot," she muttered as she grabbed her Bergen and jumped out of the door. The midday light outside was blinding. She felt stunned by the attack and furious with the squaddie.

Looking around, she saw they were in a dusty civic square, enclosed by low, mud brick buildings. Scanning the rooftops she noticed several men crouching low, manning fixed gun positions, their weapons pointing down into the town.

She tried to push away a creeping feeling of unease.

"Did you take a hit?" A sergeant she didn't recognise raced over to the pilot who was inspecting the helicopter. "We've got a group to get out of here".

"Are you okay? Is that painful?" Molly looked up, surprised to hear a female voice. It was a medic, a Corporal she hadn't met before. The Corporal gestured towards her arm. Molly looked down to see it was bleeding. She stared at it for a moment, confused, yet suddenly aware of pain.

Then behind her someone yelled: "Dawsey! What are you doing here?" Fingers pulled her into a big bear hug and Brains yelled: "Fuck! Am I glad to see you! Did you bring us any biscuits?"

Molly struggled to get out of their arms. Two section must be here! And that meant the Boss was too!

"Fingers, Brains, what the fuck are you playing at?"

She'd recognise that voice anywhere.

"Put that medic down! Do you want to stay in this hellhole? We're supposed to be getting on that helicopter and flying out of here!"

Molly looked past Brains' ear to see the Boss marching towards them. He was even leaner now after months on tour and she realised she'd forgotten how tall he was. He pulled off his headset angrily and she saw his curly hair was swirled with dust. He looked furious and… damn sexy.

Fingers let Molly go. "Sorry Boss," he said cheekily, not sounding sorry at all. "But look who's here. Your favourite old pop tart, the medic Dawsey!"

Molly bit back an impulse to laugh: "Less of the old, thanks Fingers. I'm only 26."

The Boss stared at her for a moment, looking thunderous: "You're not supposed to be here. I told them it wasn't a suitable place for females."

Molly didn't know how to react. Christ this man was supposed to be her boyfriend. "Nice to see you too, Sir," she said quietly.

"That's a bit sexist, isn't it, Sir?" piped up the other female medic.

The Boss whirled round to rebuke her: "It's because this posting has become a siege. It's too bloody dangerous. There's nowhere suitable to sleep or wash and it's so difficult to defend, the Taliban could overrun it at any moment." His voice hardened. "I don't need to spell it out, do I Lane?"

Molly looked from Charles to the medic standing next to her. So this woman was Georgie Lane, the gorgeous medic that Charles had bagged after she had had to move to another platoon. All summer she'd listened to a flurry of gossip at Bastion about how "Charles requested Lane personally", how "bloody good they look together" and "how well they get on". In the beginning she'd felt able to shrug it off, relieved the relationship with Charles had gone under the radar. But as summer wore on, the relentless heat and enforced restrictions at Bastion sapped her confidence and there were nights when she would lie awake steeped in doubt.

And now all she could think as she looked at Lane's perfectly painted brows was: 'She _is_ gorgeous, but fuck me, all that make up on out here in an Afghan village?'

Molly knew she was being unreasonable. She shouldn't criticise Lane on the basis of looks. She'd hate it if any of the other girls judged her by anything but her soldiering.

"No Sir, you don't need to spell our situation out," Lane responded. "It's just that…" she hesitated as the Pilot marched around the Chinook.

"Those Taliban fuckers have severed my bloody rotor, the pilot shouted in fury."

Charles spun round: "Are you able to get out Flight Lieutenant?"

"Not a sodding chance, Captain. For one, this Chinook won't fly until I get spares and, second, I don't think an RPG did that. Look at the damage here. He pointed to a twisted, burnt section of the rotor blade. Only a SAM could do that."

Charles sighed. He turned to his men: "Right, two section, square your kit away. It looks as if we'll be staying here for a bit longer."

There was an almost palpable sense of disappointment. As two section walked away Dawes could hear Fingers groaning: "Fuck me, we'll never get out of this shit hole."

"Yeah," grumbled Brains: "And once those Taliban wankers realise we've got a Chinook in here they're going to step up their attacks for sure."

"And we don't even have enough bloody food as it is. Now there'll be extra mouths to feed.

The Boss turned back to look at Molly's arm. He was tight-lipped with fury.

And Molly was beginning to feel pretty anxious. So far he hadn't acknowledged her at all.

"Lane, it looks like you've got a casualty to deal with."

"Yes boss."

"And while you're about it, please find a suitable space for Dawes to settle into?"

Lane nodded and picked up Molly's Bergen.

Molly pulled it back: "I don't need any help, thanks Corporal!"

Lane turned back in surprise: "It's Dawes isn't it? Don't get the wrong idea, _Private_. I was only thinking of your arm."

Tense, suspicious of each other, the two girls started walking towards the makeshift med centre.

For the briefest second Charles allowed himself to watch them go. Then he turned to Dawes' CO, who was supervising his men unloading supplies from the helicopter.

Captain James said quietly: "I don't suppose you've brought any water with you, Captain Newlish? We're desperately low on supplies."

This story started out as a one shot challenge, which was originally published with the Miniaturists. I failed the challenge completely, as I couldn't stop writing, which many reviewers noticed at the time! So here is the first chapter again and I've divided the rest into chapters which I'll post from time to time.


	2. Chapter 2

"Private Dawes!"

Molly looked up from checking her med kit: "Lance Corporal?"

"Captains James and Newlish are doing a sit rep in the Opps room. Follow me."

Lane looked over her shoulder as she walked out: "And don't leave that Bergen here Dawes. We can't rule out more Afghan Police deserters."

Molly sighed and slung the heavy Bergen over her shoulder to follow Lane into the Opps room. Judging by the groups of soldiers sitting expectantly, they were the last to arrive. Conscious of Charles standing at the front, Molly avoided looking at him and chose to walk over to stand unobtrusively by her section. She smiled at Captain Newlish.

Charles spoke first: "Welcome gentlemen – and ladies – to Kajazi Administrative Centre, otherwise known, for obvious reasons, as _The Alamo_. I'm Captain James, this – he gestured to Molly's CO – is Captain Newlish. Soldiers, you've had a couple of hours to meet each other, and hear first hand about the situation here." Molly watched him pause to look around the room, gaining everyone's attention. She felt his eyes rest on her briefly and she stared straight ahead, willing herself not to respond.

"Make no mistake," he challenged. "This is a very difficult posting. An enemy that is prepared to use its considerable firepower surrounds us. Our aerial escape route has been disabled and we are running low on water. If we do not act quickly… decisively, this will become a siege."

Soldiers stopped moving and the room went dramatically quiet. "You are going to need all your wits about you, individually and as a group if we are to survive. So listen up carefully. First I'm going to hand over to Staff Sargeant Farbright for a report on the condition of his helicopter."

The pilot was pretty technical and Molly didn't understand much of it. But the upshot was: they were fucked. The helicopter couldn't get airborne until someone dropped a spare rotor part in. The Pilot sat back down.

"And no one is prepared to fly in with the part until they know what hit it," Charles added walking forward. "A rocket propelled grenade (RPG) that got lucky is one thing, but a surface to air missile (SAM) is quite another. So to deal with these challenges, we are temporarily joining 2 section and Victoria section together and dividing you into two groups. I will lead group A with Sargeant King and our mission will be to locate and neutralise Taliban air power in the town centre. Until we have done that, no one can get in or out."

"Now the next most pressing issue is water. As Captain Newlish has taken on this responsibility, I will hand over to him."

Molly's CO stood up to address the group: "We have enough drinking water in our tanks for precisely five days if personnel remains the same."

'That wouldn't be a good way to go,' Dawes thought, 'dying of thirst out here.'

That figure includes the 11 Afghan police remaining in the compound. I'm afraid to report that two more abandoned their posts this morning, just after Victoria section arrived."

There was a general moan and someone shouted: "Kick those tossers out."

"We _cannot_ expel anyone from the compound if it might mean they get killed by the enemy, Fingers," Charles responded frostily. "Even if we suspect they might leave to join the enemy under their own steam. And we can probably expect some more to leave over the coming days."

There were more groans. Charles sat back down and Molly dared to look at him for the first time. She could see from the way he chewed at his lip that he was tense.

Captain Newlish continued: "So we need to find and replenish our water supplies as soon as possible. We are lucky to have Toolkit, a first class Sapper, a construction engineer who will do exactly that. I will lead group B to take control of this compound close to _The Alamo's_ east walls. He pointed to a house on an aerial map. It belongs to the _Malik_ , the local landowner and headman and it has an internal tap. Toolkit will organise replacing water supplies from here as soon as possible. Then we will then look at diverting a mains into the compound on a permanent basis."

"What happens if we can't get any more water in, Sir?"

Dawes looked round at the interruption, surprised to hear another woman's voice.

"We're fucked!" Brains answered cheerfully.

"Our water shortage is critical, but not hopeless," Captain Newlish reprimanded before adding. "Corporal Lane will be in charge of rationing and providing liquid alternatives, Richards."

"Yes Sir."

There she was, a wild-haired private with a slight Cockney accent. Dawes smiled, thinking, 'I bet she's more fun than Lane'.

"Liquid alternatives? That sounds fucking dodgy to me, whispered a young private called Sharpshot, one of other boys in Molly's section.

"What are these alternatives, Sir?" asked someone else.

Captain Newlish looked uncomfortable: "We'll have to start milking the headman's herd of goats in the compound here."

Staff Sargeant Farbright started to laugh: "No wonder he's looking so sheepish," he muttered to Molly.

But Sharpshot didn't get the joke. "Goat's milk?" He looked thunderous: "You are joking!"

Charles shook his head slowly. Molly recognised the slight smile on his face. Most people wouldn't have noticed it, she thought, but she'd seen that smile before and she knew it well.

So did Fingers: "He's fucking serious mate," he trumpeted.

* * *

Author's note: While the idea of drinking goat's milk might seem farfetched, it did actually happen during a protracted siege at Musa Qala, Helmand Province in 2006. When food and water ran out, ISAF troops were forced to drink goat's milk to survive.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly lay on her stomach staring down onto the darkened town of Kajazi. Next to her lay Private Richards. On the other side Fingers nudged her and pointed to a building down on the left. In the darkness she could make out two figures skirting round a low walled compound and disappearing behind a tree.

Molly's fingers tightened on her weapon: "Those are Taliban?" she asked Fingers crouching beside her.

"Nah. Police deserters." Fingers lowered his voice to a whisper. "They were in here until a couple of days ago. They were ordered to locate a water main that could be diverted into here. Fuckers left and never came back. First we thought they'd been killed, but then we saw them with the Taliban yesterday. Tossers!"

When the two sections had been split up Molly had been allocated to group B under Captain Newlish. Their mission was to locate a water source. Tonight her group was surveying the town, familiarising themselves with the streets and buildings by doing a watch duty before tomorrow night's mission to locate the water source. She unclipped her night vision goggles. A sliver of moon hung low in the black sky, reflected in glittering strands of silver as the water flowed down the Helmand. Thank Christ it would be dark tomorrow.

"How long have you been here?" she whispered to Richards.

"Six weeks. I can't wait to get out. I'd _drive_ back to Bastion if I could."

Molly searched for something positive to say: "I heard you're a good driver."

"Shit hot!" Richards smiled. And I've heard you're a pretty good medic Dawes! Even the Queen thinks so!"

Molly smiled back.

"But who told you I was a good driver?" Richards added uncertainly. "Couldn't have been Captain James. The Boss. He's never said that."

In the darkness she sensed Richards' disappointment. "I bet he thinks so!" Dawes whispered back.

"I don't know. I don't seem to rub along with him very well. Lane has no problems with him at all. They seem really tight."

Molly stiffened as Richards turned to her: "You was in his section, weren't you? Was he tough with you too?"

Molly thought back to the first few days at Bastien when he'd humiliated her in front of her section. She still flinched at the painful memory of him ridiculing her in her shorts.

She whispered back: "In the beginning I thought he hated me. It was my first tour ever and I really needed to impress him. Bloody no chance. I think I was the first female medic he'd ever worked with. It was tough, but it got better."

How much better had it got? Richards would never know!

"He's a tough one, that's right. So it's not just me." Richards giggled. "Such a waste of horn, though, right."

Molly jerked her head towards the shadowy rooftops to avoid replying. She felt her cheeks burning. Did Richards know? She glanced carefully at Richards, but the girl was looking straight ahead. She struggled to bring the conversation back from the personal. "He's like that with everyone, I think you just have to prove yourself first."

"That'll never happen with Lane breathing down my neck."

Molly couldn't help herself: "What's she like?"

Richards turned towards her so no one could hear them: "She's alright really. Just she gets up my nose every day with… something. She's always trying to be so professional. She'll never let her hair down."

The girl turned away as Toolkit pointed out another building used by the Taliban. Then she added reluctantly: "Thing is, I expected us women would stick together, you know, support each other. Probably it was wrong to think that. But we're in the minority and Lane, well you know, she's never going to do that."

Molly frowned. Although she didn't report to Lane directly, the other medic was senior to her, and there had already been a bit of tension between them, so she was going to have to be very careful.

She smiled at Richards: "Well look how things have changed. I'm here now! She giggled quietly. "We'll be in the majority soon!"

"That's never going to happen!" Richards giggled back.

"I'm Molly, by the way."

"And I'm Maisie. Nice to meet you Molly".

"Oi!"

They both looked round at Sargeant King who was crouching behind them. "This is not a fucking hen party. Get your goggles on pronto, we're going to creep round to the northwest corner."

"See what I mean?" Maisie whispered as they followed him round the roof. "Us girls have got to stick together."

They both stopped behind a big protective wall with webbing slung overhead, waiting for Kingy as he deployed one of their group to man the look out.

Molly looked back over the Alamo. "What's that building there, with the light on? The one upstairs?"

"That's the Boss's quarters. He likes to look down on us all."

Molly resisted the urge to look through her binoculars.

"Really? That doesn't sound like him."

"Nah, I was only joking."

Molly laughed. She already knew she was going to enjoy being with Maisie. There was something endearing and innocent about her.

"But I think it is so he gets an aerial view of everything, especially the police quarters, down there," Maisie added pointing to a dark corner opposite. "He doesn't trust them."

Molly felt a cold shiver of fear even in the heat of the evening. "Some of them must be alright," she whispered."

"It's not nice," Maisie confided. "Practically every day you wake up and realise that someone who you were talking to yesterday is now with the other side, plotting to kill you."

"Sorry, I shouldn't say this, you've just arrived, but the whole situation here is shit," Maisie's voice rose uncertainly. "It's boring, the food is terrible and water is rationed. And the atmosphere started off alright, but day after day of sitting helplessly while the Taliban look on has made everyone really tense. I was so looking forward to going today, and now we're all stuck because some Taliban tosser fucked up the helicopter. I'm beginning to think we're never going to get out now. We're all going to dry out and die in this shitty, boring, dusted-up fuck of a place."

Molly could see the tears glittering in her dark eyes as Maisie's anxiety rose and she stretched out her hand to reassure her. "There are more of us now. And Toolkit's shit hot. If anyone can get us water, it's him."

Kingy turned to the girls. He frowned at Maisie's tear streaked face. "Are you alright Richards?"

"Sorry Sir. It's just a bit of fear and disappointment."

"You wanted to leave today?"

"We'd been counting the hours down, Sir."

"Well bugger off for half an hour then. Have a break, get a coffee, and see me back here at… uh… 2130."

"Really Sir?" Maisie's face had been transformed by a huge smile."

Kingy smiled: "Do one before I change my mind."

"Thank you sir. Can Molly come too?"

"Don't push it Richards." He turned away. "You're both supposed to be manning the North West look out. You can join Dawes when you come back."

Molly followed Kingy round the flat roof to the lookout. "I hope you don't mind starting the watch your own Dawes," he explained as they lay on the ground. "It must have been a disappointment for her this morning. We're not in a good situation, surrounded here. It can get to you, even if you're strong. You'll need to watch out for that."

"Sir."

Sargeant King pointed out the positions to watch and stayed with her for a few minutes as she got her bearings. Then he threaded his way back through _The Alamo's_ rooftops to check on the first lookouts.

Molly checked her targets through the night vision goggles and allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkened light. Suddenly she realised someone was crouching beside her.

"Alright, Dawes?"

It was the Bossman's voice.

* * *

Thank you for all your reviews, likes and follows. It's a looooong time since series one which we all loved so much and lots of things have changed since, but it's great to know that this site is still going, there's some wonderful Our Girl FF about and some really supportive readers too. It's nice to be back!


	4. Chapter 4

Even though Molly's stomach fluttered when she realised it was the Bossman, years of army training instinctively made her jump to attention.

Just as well. He was all Captain tonight: "As you were Dawes. "

She crouched back and lay on her stomach again, binoculars in hand.

"Who's your lookout partner?" he demanded , looking around.

"Richards. Sergeant King's just given her a break. She'll be back soon."

"You shouldn't be out here on your own for the first time tonight."

She could tell from the sharp tone in his voice that he was bloody irritated.

"I can do it on my own Sir."

Behind her, unnoticed, Charles grinned. It was characteristic Dawes bravado.

They settled into an easy silence and then Charles spoke: "Well this is a bit of a cock up isn't it Dawes?"

Molly was unsure whether he was talking about the situation at Kajazi or the fact that both of them were in it together. She decided to play it safe and trust he was talking about the former.

"Sir."

In the darkness she thought she saw Charles frowning at her bland reply.

"Are you expecting an attack, Sir?"

He hesitated before conceding: "I expect it will get busy soon. The Taliban'll come along for that helicopter – if they can get it."

He swivelled onto his front and for an insane, breathless moment Molly thought he was going to reach out to her. But he lay down carefully a few inches away from her and peered over the low wall at the blue shapes of houses in the shadows.

"I'll do the watch with you until Richards returns," he said easily, taking the binoculars out of her hands.

As their fingers touched a spark of electricity jumped between them.

"That's kind of you, Sir. Thank you," she rushed out clumsily.

Staring through the binoculars, he said: "It's not kind of me at all. It's bloody sensible. And it's my responsibility. I'm here for your safety… and the safety of everyone else in here."

Molly looked away, feeling stupid: "It's a shit situation, isn't it Sir."

"Very," he answered gravely, still staring straight ahead. "You better bloody look after yourself Dawes."

The easy silence turned awkward. Why's he being such a dickhead? Molly thought, irritated.

She took a deep breath and pushed the ill feeling to some dark, uncertain corner of her mind. Uncertain, she asked softly. "You are pleased to see me, aren't you Boss?"

He turned to look at her and then she saw a quiet earnestness on his face. Searching his eyes for reassurance, she could only see a dark, remote anxiety: "No Dawes. If I could bloody well turn back the moment you literally hit the ground in this godforsaken place, I would do – in a second!"

'What the fuck?' thought Molly resentfully. It wasn't as if she'd had any choice about coming!

He jerked his head away, looking back down at the town.

"I thought we were…" she began, but he interrupted her.

"The situation's too difficult," he said hotly. "If I was in charge at Bastion, I wouldn't want you – anyone – anywhere near something as dangerous as this.

"See that building there? She followed his long fingers pointing out a two storey building half a mile north. "That's where the town headman lives. He has two Taliban guards on his door 24 hours a day. If you look closely in the daytime you'll see them."

"Can you make out those cornfields to the right?" Molly peered into the night gloom. "There's upwards of 30 Taliban hiding there. I almost lost a man there last week."

He swivelled round and pointed to the corner of the Alamo where the Afghan police were housed. "Look down there. That's where the Afghan police are quartered. When we took over, there were about 150 of them. And now there's 11. They're bloody leaving, a slow drip, one by one, day by day. And most likely they're telling the other side exactly what's going on in here, how much water we have left. The enemy will no doubt be waiting for the exact moment the water runs out. That's when they'll attack us, when we're thirsty and weak and unable to defend ourselves.

"Bugger." Molly whispered, her throat dry.

"And I need a razor like focus on the job of getting us all out of this situation alive."

"Why doesn't the army send more reinforcements?"

"Christ knows. I've requested troops from my CO about a dozen times!" he bit out in fury, before abruptly stopping himself from saying any more.

His sharp tone dislodged a bird of prey from its lonely peak behind them. It swooped low over their heads, a flurry of beating wings and a snarling cry that echoed across the darkened, deserted town. Unsettled, it swerved round the Alamo and headed off towards the swirling Helmand.

"Jesus! That _was_ close." Charles rose up on one elbow to follow the bird's flight into the darkness: "It's a _shikra_ , a goshawk," he explained. "It seems to live in the roof above me. Some of the police say it belongs to the headman and he sends it over to see what's going on and… to intimidate us."

"They also say when we're all dying of thirst it will alert the Taliban by circling around above us," added Dawes, quietly.

"No point in concealing anything from you, is there!" Charles nodded sadly: "So you've familiarised yourself with the Alamo's rumour mill already."

"Fingers is determined to shoot it down."

"Very understandable. But I think it would be a shame. It's beautiful."

Charles reached out and covered her hand with his own.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shared that information about my CO," he confessed slowly. "I shouldn't be sharing any of this with anyone here, except… that it's you, and I know you'll keep it to yourself and act accordingly."

His loneliness, his inability to offload his anxiety was so present, Molly realised, that it was almost palpable.

"It's a political problem," he continued. The governor here has influential relatives in Kabul so the Americans put him in charge. He promised to reduce taxes and de-mine the cornfields. Instead he set up an extortion racket and killed some villagers. The locals hate him. So they've invited the Taliban back. And instead of welcoming the British Army's support, our Governor friend is using his influence in the capital to stop more reinforcements."

Molly looked down at his long thumb tracing a wild pattern on her trembling fingers: "Why?"

"Who knows? He's probably making more money under the cover of conflict"

"Blimey," Molly went silent. Fear prickled up her backbone. "What do you think is going to happen?"

He hesitated and decided to ignore her question: "If you have a chance, Dawes, if the opportunity comes up, and you can leave, then get the hell out of here as soon as you can. Because if you don't take the chance when one comes up, there might not be another one."

His frightening words fell between them like heavy, cold stones.

"Would you take the chance to leave if there was one?" she whispered, for the first time looking straight into his eyes.

He looked straight back at her: "I couldn't, Molly. I've got my men to think about." The honesty in his eyes was almost brutal.

"Then if you're going to stay, well so am I. I won't leave you here boss."

"You might not get a chance Dawes." He dropped her hand abruptly. "This is the British army. We all have to obey orders. Considering Victoria Section was supposed to relieve 2 Section, it's much more likely that I'm going to have to leave you here with Captain Newlish in charge."

He shook his head: "Had that bloody helicopter not been shot down, I'd have left already. In fact, chances are I'd have not even seen you during the changeover, or known you were here."

Charles thought to himself with frustration: 'And if I'd known, what could I have done to stop her from staying. Nothing!'

Molly hesitated. But she couldn't help asking what had been on her mind all day: "Would Captain Newlish be okay on his own? Is he experienced enough?"

"I can't discuss your CO's capabilities with you," he said abruptly. "You know that would be very wrong."

Molly looked away, embarrassed.

Charles stood up, obviously eager to end the conversation. "We've got to get water and that helicopter airborne." His voice was firm, resolute. "So I'm trying … I won't think about you Dawes, as anything other than one of the soldiers in here. I can't. We need our wits about us if we're going to survive. It's Newlish's first tour and I've got two other women in my command. So I'm going to bury any feelings I have for you down deep and I expect you to do the same. When we get home, whenever that will be, well… that's a different story. But don't expect anything from me now," his tone hardened. "Because right now it's mission uppermost."

* * *

Thanks to everyone who wrote messages and reviews about the last chapter - especially about the pairing of Dawes and Richards. I'm having a lot of fun thinking about how they would be together and your comments are really encouraging.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly crouched by a low wall behind Captain Newlish, Toolkit and Richards waiting, breathlessly in the silence of the night. It was so still, She could hear her heart thumping.

They were right outside the _Malik's_ house, waiting for Fingers and Sharpshot to go in. She wished to fuck she was back in the Alamo. The Taliban could be anywhere in this pitch-blackness. She could barely see anything. Thank God for night vision. It was damn scary.

She saw Newlish's signal and heard Fingers kick in the door. It crashed open, an appalling noise, into the silence and instinctively her finger tightened round her gun. She waited, her muscles tense as the pair checked out the house.

Nothing downstairs.

She heard footsteps running up the external stone stairs and realised they were checking the roof. Then Sharpshot emerged, shouting "clear' and she darted forward. Within seconds they were in the house. Newlish directed her to a position opposite the door, by the window where she could monitor the compound's entrance. For several tense minutes she stared into the darkness, her ears straining to hear a sound, her muscles tense, expecting an attack at any point.

After about 15 minutes Sharpshot took her place and for the first time she was able to look around the room. It was in a mess. Either the _Malik_ had left in a hurry or someone else had been through it and hurled his possessions - clothes, blankets and cooking bowls – all over the floor. She glanced at Toolkit bent over the tap and then noticed a folder of papers and a photo album tipped onto the floor. She frowned. It was a bit strange in such a remote, undeveloped area to find a stash of papers like this. It might be 'intel'.

"Maisie," she called softly.

There was no response.

"Maisie…" she repeated, louder: "Richards."

Maisie turned round: "What?" she whispered back.

"Can you cover my position, please?"

Maisie moved over to the window and Molly ran over to the papers and stuffed them into her Bergen. It was too dangerous to look at them now. She could ask Ikram, their translator, to check them later.

By the time she'd finished, Toolkit had connected the tap to a small pump and a long hose that would fill up the tanks in the compound. Now it was up to Toolkit, Maisie and Newlish to get the hose back to the Alamo to refill the water tanks. Molly had been ordered to stay at the house and guard the tap with Sharpshot and Fingers.

It was a risky operation, but it had been planned to the last detail and with lookout support from the Alamo, Newlish was hopeful they could get a couple of hours pumping in the dark hours before dawn.

She watched them rolling the hose back outside and stood breathless with Sharpshot and Fingers, all eyes on the radio, waiting until they had the confirmation that the others were back in the Alamo and filling the tanks.

For about 90 minutes then, everything was still, except for a quiet hiss of water squirting out of the joint and dribbling along the earth floor. It was early morning now and no longer quite pitch black; the first pink light of dawn had already streaked across the sky. They needed to get a shift on.

Then an enormous explosion ripped right through the compound wall. Rocks and dust flew up violently and Molly instinctively threw herself to the floor.

"Christ," yelled Fingers moving behind her towards another door: "We've got to get out. Round the back."

She rolled over, ignoring the pain in her ears and got to her feet, instinctively grabbing her med bergin. Thank fuck! It looked untouched.

Sharpshot was still on the floor. Molly ran over to him: "Are you okay tosser?"

Sharpshot didn't respond. He seemed stunned.

"Come on Sharpshot, Dawes, get the fuck out of here," shouted Fingers, poking his head back through the door.

"I can't." She was breathing heavily with the effort: "It's Sharpie. Help me! He's fucked up."

Sharpshot looked at her as if in a dream as she tried to pull him towards the back door.

Fingers ran back in, grabbed Sharpshoot roughly by the arm and pushed him out. "Fucking pull it together you Benny, we're under attack," he yelled into Sharpshot's uncomprehending face: "We gotta get out of here."

Sharpshot dithered and finally looked scared: "Where are they?"

A volley of shots rang out in front of them somewhere.

"Fucking all around us, you jerk. Get down."

They crawled along the street and ducked into a doorway, forced to shelter from shots behind.

Molly's radio crackled to life: "Molly, are you okay?"

It was the Boss.

"Okay," she gasped, as her eyes darted around the rooftops opposite. "But there's fire ahead and behind us."

His voice dropped to a low, troubled whisper: "Where are you?"

"Back of the compound I think."

"Fingers? Sharpshot?" he demanded in an undertone.

She looked around at Sharpshot, who stood seemingly unaffected by the panic, eyes glazed.

"OK. Sharpie's spaced."

"Spaced?"

"Well, dazed."

"He's fucked, Sir," Fingers spat out.

The Boss started to reply but she didn't hear what he said. A shot had pinged right past her ear.

"Look out," shouted Fingers: "We've got to get out of this doorway. Come on!"

Pulling Sharpshot they raced up the street and round a corner, then ran through a maze of streets, before finding a compound with high walls they could hide behind.

The radio quickly crackled again.

"Fingers, Dawes? Are you okay?"

"We've got to get out of here boss," Molly tried to whisper, between panted breaths."

Where's Sharpshot?"

"I've got him Boss."

"Keep him with you Fingers."

"We're not leaving him to these fuckers."

"Good. Where are you now?"

Fingers peered out. "I can see some wooden tables so we must be by the market… uh… north of the market."

"Right, I've got all of our men in night vision on the rooftop looking out for you, we'll guide you back."

The Boss sounded in control of the situation. Molly allowed herself a second of relief.

"There's one group of men in front of the _Malik's_ compound. Another are fanning out through the streets after you. Don't go back. Go left and come back towards to the South door."

"Boss."

They crept quietly through the maze of streets, guided by the Boss's softly spoken directions, until Dawes could see the walls of the Alamo. Ahead of her Fingers was half pulling, half dragging a resistant Sharpshot. But as she crept towards the Alamo's heavy wooden door, shots started whizzing down Main Street South.

Quickly they found a water trough and crouched down behind it. Molly realised the enemy were waiting for them near the entrance.

"Fuckers," whispered Sharpshot, for the first time aware of his surroundings.

Fingers and Molly's eyes met over his head and they grinned at each other. "He's going to be okay," Molly mouthed.

Over the radio she heard the Boss directing fire down on the shooters.

"Those Afghans won't survive that. Come on," Fingers shouted, grabbing Sharpshot and getting up to run. "This is our opportunity."

They reached the door together, banging heavily on the old, rotten wood to be let in. Seconds later they were inside, and Molly was leaning over Sharpshot lying coughing on the ground. 'Mate! Sharpey! Look at me? Look at me!"

Behind her she heard Captain Newlish: "Well done for getting back under fire Private Dawes."

She nodded, her priority still tending to Sharpshot."

"Let Lane sort him out," her Captain instructed: "Now get your breath back,"

As Molly stepped back to let Lane take over, there was a call on the radio. It was the Boss: "Good work getting back Dawes, Fingers, Sharpshot."

She wondered if that was relief in his voice. "Couldn't have done it without you Sir. I never thought we'd make it!"

She looked up at the lookouts, following the walls around till she saw him standing watching them. From that distance she still recognised the smile on his face. She grinned back. The relief was infectious.

Not for long though. "What about the water, Sir?" Fingers demanded.

"Bad news," answered Newlish. "It's stopped coming in so they must have disconnected the pipe. We got some more water though. Enough for a few more days."

"Arseholes!" shouted Fingers in pure frustration. "Let us out again. We'll get it back."

"It's too dangerous." The boss's voice was firm. He was not to be argued with.

For a moment Fingers looked up at the roof like he was going to argue back. Then, unexpectedly he grinned and turned to Molly: "Well it looks like you'll be milking the goats after all, Dawsey".

"I think you're much better suited to being a milk maid than I, Fingers," Molly shouted back instinctively.

But she felt a prick of unease. She knew she could get used to goat's milk at the best of times, if she had to. But not now. That stuff was bloody raw!

She pushed the thought away.

"Or you'll be drinking my piss," Fingers added, with a rude laugh.

"Don't be disgusting Fingers," instructed Lane coolly from behind them.

"Yeah," added Molly. "Bugger off you cheeky wank stain! I'd rather take my chances out in that godforsaken town, surrounded by Taliban, than drink your piss."

* * *

Apologies to all for a long summer away from FF... Siege will be updated regularly from now on. Thanks for you kind messages and reviews, always much appreciated! Dance


	6. Chapter 6

The shelling started early the following morning. It was sporadic to begin with but the noise woke Molly up from her sleep. Having been up most of the night before, she wasn't supposed to be back on duty until later in the day, but with each explosion, sleep became pretty much impossible.

She was shattered after last night's raid. For a while she lay in her bed trying not to think about the faint buzzing in her head and the itchy feeling when she opened her eyes, but eventually she decided to get up. For the first time there was enough water in the tiny, grotty room that served as a makeshift women's bathroom for a strip wash. She longed to wash her hair, but decided against it. Maisie and Lane had to share this supply.

Over in the med centre she found Lane. As usual, the other woman was looking pretty well tickled up. She'd obviously risen above their lack of water. Looking at Lane's make up and neat French plait, Molly felt embarrassed by her dank, tangled curls.

"Can't sleep Dawes?"

"Pretty much damn impossible," Molly said lightly. "If our neighbours don't turn the noise down, I'll have to complain to the bleeding council!"

They both laughed.

"Bossman says they'll be after the helicopter."

"Yes," agreed Lane. "They'll try to smoke us out"

"And they'll know we're short of water now."

"Don't be disappointed," Lane tried to reassure her. "You did your best. And there are always the goats. Capt James has ordered Fingers to start milking them tomorrow."

Molly made a face.

"Not a goat's milk fan, are you Dawes!"

Molly thought better of making a fuss. "I've tasted a lot nicer!"

Lane laughed: "That's if the goats survive the attack and don't become stressed."

"What?"

"Can't you hear them?"

There was a lull in the shelling and then she heard the goats bleating. It sounded high-pitched and stressed.

"Do they usually do that?"

"Sometimes after some shooting. But the shelling's never been this heavy before," Lane said quietly. Her eyes met Molly's. "They're throwing a lot at us."

Molly looked around the room: "Are you ready for casualties. Can I help?"

"Thank you. Let's put another bed up just in case. And then you can help me with this report on Sharpshot."

"Is he okay?"

"He's sleeping now. Captain James has ordered a review." Lane sighed. "He should be back at the hospital in Bastien being assessed. There's not much we can do for him here."

"Poor Sharpie. It was a shit moment."

Lane raised well-shaped eyebrows. "Would you worry about him on patrol?" She asked searchingly.

"I… yes I'd worry about him," Molly conceded. "I'd worry the others would have to look after him."

"Exactly," Lane agreed. "We can't afford to lose a single soldier, but we can't send him out either. He's on obs at the moment. If he stabilises he can be a real asset on the rooftop. Fortunately he's a great sniper."

They had just finished the report when their interpreter, Ikram appeared with the sheaf of papers Molly had given him earlier.

"These papers are _interesting_ , Private Dawes."

"Good intel?" Molly felt excited.

"There's a little bit of intel," he shrugged, his body language obviously doubting the worth of the information.

Molly felt a wave of disappointment. "Sorry. I thought it was worth a try. I hope I didn't waste your time."

"Most of it seems to be a diary that someone was writing. And it's in English."

"English? Who would write English out here?" wondered Lane.

"Someone who didn't want their diary to be read, I suppose," Molly guessed.

"Who knows," the interpreter answered. "It was someone who was surprisingly well educated, possibly the _Malik's_ or someone else's wife."

"Have you read it?" asked Molly, curious.

"It's woman's writing," Ikram excused, his courteous tone belying his casual sexism.

Out of the corner of her eye Molly could see Lane mouthing exaggeratedly "WTF? SEXIST!"

Molly found it hard not to giggle. "You'd better get back to the men then," she said pointedly. "Thank you."

They both collapsed into laughter when Ikram left.

"God, that man is _so_ creepy! I'd love to give him an army diversity doc just to translate! Can you imagine how he'd respond?" wondered Lane.

"I'd love to be a fly on the wall when he did!"

"He'd have a heart attack at the section on transgender."

Molly laughed. "Now let's see what it is, this ' _woman's writing_.'" She turned to the papers in front of her.

There was a bunch of loose papers written in a looped hand that was quite difficult to make out. It was written in a greyish ink that had faded badly in many places. At the top of each page someone – probably Ikram – had ordered the pages by numbering them with a blue biro. Molly tried to make out some of the words, but it was almost impossible, so she turned to the photo album. It was a big plastic album with a design of bright sunflowers on the front. Inside a mismatched collection of photographs were stuck down over several pages. Most photos showed people standing in front of scenes, such as a mosque or a flowery garden. They were faded and bluish, and difficult to make out. She turned the first pages and stopped at a black and white photo of a beautiful young woman with a small baby boy. They were propped up against a backdrop of Persian carpets in a photographic studio marked Mehboob, Kabul.

Molly found herself drawn to the image of the mother.

'She looks so young,' Molly thougt: 'Much younger than...'

She pushed that thought away.

On the next page was a photo of a small girl in an embroidered Shalwar Khamiz, sitting in the same studio. Molly smiled at this little girl's curly pointed shoes and the dangly earrings hung on string over her ears.

"Come and look at these photos," she called to Lane.

Over the next few pages there were more photos of the girl and the baby boy. They looked like they were brother and sister. There were pictures of them playing in a garden, of the girl eating ice cream in a restaurant, of the boy pretending to drive an old Ambassador.

"Is that their mother?" Lane pointed to a black and white picture of a woman in dark glasses standing in front of an airplane. "She looks too glamorous for Afghan."

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Lane nodded and said. "They can't be from here. They look like rich, international people from like, looking at those flares, the 1970s."

The next two pictures showed the girl in school uniform. One of them was a school photo, with a class of identical, unsmiling pre-teens. "That must have been a private school," said Lane. "They're all wearing socks and shoes. Kids wear flip flops to school round here."

"It couldn't be around here. Perhaps it was in another country."

"Look at them. They're so neat," said Molly. "Not like my school. In our school photos there's usually at least one or two dicking about."

"Oh yeah, ours too," agreed Lane. "There were always the ones who had non reg earrings, or long hair."

"Or it would come out and you'd find someone had put a joint in their mouth at the last minute" added Molly.

"Really?" Lane laughed. "Your school must have been fun. We'd never have dared do anything like that."

"Although I don't think I was in that many school photos," admitted Molly

"Why?"

"Dunno. I was probably skiving on the day they were being taken."

At Lane's raised eyebrows, Molly shrugged. "I never took to school".

She looked back at the album and turned over a page: "Look, that must be a wedding!" They both stared at the bride, looking overwhelmed in her sparkling emerald wedding dress.

"Who is it?

"It's not that little girl! Molly found herself willing it not to be."

"I don't think so. That sheer veil over the bottom half of her face makes it's difficult to tell."

"I think it is you know."

Lane shrugged her shoulders and picked up the magnifying glass. "Here you are. This should help."

There was a knock at the door. It was the Bossman. His eyes flicked around the room, rested on Dawes a second too long and arrived, finally at Lane.

"Are you okay here?"

"Yes Sir. We've doubled the capacity so we can take more casualties," Lane reported."

"Good. We'll probably need it. There's an Afghan policeman on his way down. He's supposed to go on guard duty but he claims he's hurt his ankle. Will you have a look at it and report back to me please, Lane? He's probably about to push off. I want to make sure he doesn't take any weapons with him."

"Sir."

"There's not much I can do about those Police any more. A few are really good men. But as for the rest…" he broke off in frustration. "They've lost their commander. I don't want to become responsible for them."

He looked up and frowned at Molly: "Aren't you supposed to be getting some shut-eye Dawes?"

"It's the noise, Sir. I can't sleep."

The Boss nodded: "You did well with those papers you brought back. Someone in that house is a local Taliban member. There's a list of names among the papers."

"Really?" Molly was excited.

"Yes." The Boss smiled at her enthusiasm. "It's an old list. But the ANA says it's useful."

Another missile whined over their heads and landed with a shuddering explosion. It was definitely louder, and closer than previous ones.

Charles moved towards the door. "They're getting closer. Put your bloody helmet on Molly! It's very dangerous. There could be a lot of falling masonry outside. Be bloody careful."

"Sir." He didn't acknowledge her reply. She doubted he'd even heard it.

"Wow, Captain James is quite protective of you!"

Puzzled, Molly turned from the door to find Lane staring at her testily. "No more than you!" she denied.

"Well for one thing, you're not in his command. I am. And I'm not wearing my helmet!"

"He just didn't see."

Lane turned to her helmet on the table: "Oh come on."

A silence separated the two girls. Molly decided it was better to retreat.

"I'm going to get my helmet," she muttered, picking up the photo album.

Lane's reply was cool: "Get some sleep, Dawes, before you're on duty tonight."

* * *

Thanks everyone for your nice comments about chapter five... and as the bombs fall things are becoming more tense in Kajazi! Dance X


	7. Chapter 7

Molly lay down in the makeshift dormitory. She dozed between blasts, almost sleeping. But it was a disoriented slumber, befuddled by a clouded, interrupted dream. She dreamt she was with the little girl in the photograph. They were hanging strings of jewels over their ears and wandering in a cornfield when they came across a tap, and then a soldier in a helmet. Just as he raised his rifle her dream changed and she was trying to open the door to Charles' bedroom in his parent's smart house in Bath. The door was locked and then there was a sudden crash and the smart pictures on the wall melted and suddenly she was back in the Malik's house and a faceless woman in a Burkka was cooking over the fire, while the water ran, unchecked in a glassy stream across the floor and out through the door. Then there was another shuddering explosion, which woke Molly up.

She lay, still in her helmet, listening to the shells, trying to get back to sleep, trying not to give in to fear. She wondered what Charles would be doing now, whether he'd got through to the big wigs at Bastion, what they'd be planning. Surely they'd get them out of there?

Eventually she gave up trying to get back to sleep and went to find Brains, who was coming off guard duty together with one of the few remaining Afghan policemen.

"Brains you're a smart guy. Have a look at these photos." She handed him the album. "Where do you think they were taken?"

"Ha, ha," he teased opening the album to a random page near the back of the book. "You bow to my superior intellect at last."

"Superior intellect? Don't flatter yourself! You're older than me, and there's some photos taken from before I was born, so I thought, who better?"

"Well if it's a question of age, the Bossman's older."

"He's never going to have time to look at some pictures when we've got shells raining down on us, is he?"

"I suppose not. Well that one was taken in front of the Alamo," he pointed to an image of three women entombed in dusty blue burqas. There was nothing identifiable about any of them, except the taller one wore black boots.

"Blimey, look at the size of that."

Molly peered at another photo of a little boy struggling to hold up a large weapon. Behind him stood a man in uniform and flip-flops, his grinning face partly obscured by wraparound dark glasses.

"It's fucked up, isn't it?" Brains added.

"You're not wrong there," she replied. "But it was these photos, at the front. I was wondering where you thought these were from."

"Brains flipped back to the beginning. "I dunno Molly. Isn't that Mecca?

He pointed at another photo: "Plenty of weapons there…"

"Look that's Karachi International Airport."

"Karachi? Where's that? It sounds like some glamorous holiday destination!"

"What like Majorca?" Brains teased. "I can't see any tattooed Brits puking up in the background. Why do you say that?"

"Well look at her swanky clothes and dark glasses."

"I don't think so Molly! Karachi is the capital of Pakistan, it's one of the biggest, most crime-ridden cities in Asia!"

Brains saw Molly's dispirited face and stopped laughing. Embarrassed he looked back at the album. "Why don't you ask Kushan here?" Brains gestured at the policeman. "He might even know whose album it is."

The policeman flicked disinterestedly through the pages. He stopped at a photo of two middle-aged men with eagles. "This is Gorbat," he explained to Brains. "He is the _Malik_. He is a good hunter with those… birds. And this is his wife. He pointed to a picture of a woman in a grey burka."

"How do you know that?" asked Dawes: "You can't even see her face."

I know, because she is also here, with children. This one," he pointed at a photo of a little boy, "is Salazar. Might be, he is 13 now. He is fighting with the other side."

"With the Taliban? Fighting that young?"

The policeman shrugged his shoulders: "In our country some boys join the army at 10."

"And what about that little girl?"

"I don't know where she is. Must be she will be married with children somewhere."

"But she can't be," Molly almost shouted. "She looks even younger than that boy."

"This is Afghanistan. Our girls like to marry young."

'You mean you men like to marry girls young' thought Molly, irritated. She opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it. There was no point in arguing. It was tense enough in here already. "

"What's the mother's name?"

"I don't know. She will be known as ' _Mother of Salazar'_. "She was from Kabul so she didn't grow up here," he derided, adding "We didn't see her under her burka like local girls. I don't tell what she is like."

He shrugged as if it was all of no consequence and handed the album back to Brains.

"How fucked up is that," Molly whispered to no one in particular: "She doesn't even have a name."

"I'm sure she does," reasoned Brains. "It's just that Kushan doesn't know."

Molly opened the album again. Somehow she couldn't stop herself. "So this little girl here, from the 70s, who wore shoes to a posh school somewhere and travelled to Karachi with her classy mum, she's probably the one who married Gorbat and this is her photo album. And that'll be her daughter and that'll be her son, that sweet little bleeder with the big weapon."

"Who probably grew up and joined the Taliban and is aiming it at our heads at this very moment, the little bastard," added Brains, looking across the town through binoculars."

"Anyway Molly, take your precious album away and get some scoff. Haven't you got an hour before changeover."

In the mess, someone, one of the policemen perhaps, had cooked rice and a vegetable curry. Just the sight of it put Molly off. She carried some corn on the cob and a black tea to the table where Fingers was shovelling down some nauseating-looking dried meat with his penknife.

"Want some reindeer Dawes?" he said stabbing a pink translucent slice and holding it up for her to look through.

"Reindeer?" She felt squeamish at the thought. "Do they even exist in Afghan? I thought they only came out in films at Christmas."

"Yep, Rudolph's for real, and he tastes damn good! Some Finnish troops left us their rations when they pulled out last month."

He jabbed his greasy penknife in the direction of Molly's tea. "No need to have it black. There's milk over there."

"Goat?"

Fingers sniggered. "Produced by my own fair hand this morning! If you knew how long it took to get those bleaty fuckers to stand still, you'd be damn grateful."

Molly looked at his grimy fingernails and shuddered.

"Fucking no thanks. You're not going to get me drinking that stuff."

"You'll have to, starting tomorrow, Dawes."

Molly's heart seemed to still at the sound of the Boss's voice at her shoulder. She put her sweet corn down carefully and looked up at him.

"Rationing starts tomorrow. We can't afford to run out of water and this latest firing makes another foray to the town very difficult."

"Sir."

She watched him walk away. Bloody hell, how did he have that way of making the screwiest requests seem completely fucking reasonable? So sensible in fact, that you felt like a tool for complaining?

She wished he would give her something. A faint smile maybe, some softness in his eyes perhaps, a slight warmth of voice even. Something to show her he still loved her - to give her the confidence she needed.

"What's this then?" Fingers picked up the album.

"It's a photo album I found in the house last night. Look, there's this woman…"

But Fingers was flipping through the photos too fast to notice. "Look at that littl'n firing an RPG7."

"He was about 10 years old when that was taken."

"Ten? Well he'll be a shit shot now then won't he?"

He flipped over another page: "Fuck me! That's a stinger, a man pad," he burst out. "That's probably the one responsible for downing your helicopter."

He grabbed the album and hurried over to the table where Captains James and Newlish were finishing their meal.

"Look at this photo Boss. They've got a SAM here. That's probably what they got the helicopter down with."

Molly watched Charles bent low, inspecting the photograph.

"What is this?" he quizzed, turning to the cover of the album. "Where did it come from?"

"Molls brought it from the house we were in last night."

Charles looked over, his eyebrows raised so Molly stood up and walked over to their table.

"Who are these men Dawes?"

Molly pointed at one of them: "That's the _Malik_. He's called Gorbut. That young boy, he's Gorbut's son, we believe. He's Taliban."

"And the third?"

"I don't know Sir."

"Well I want to know. See if any of the Police can identify him first. If they can't provide a name, we'll send a copy to Bastion. Get Ikram, the interpreter on it straight away."

He flipped through the pages quickly, scanning any photos showing weapons. "I want an ID on all the men with weapons, particularly our friend here with the SAM. Where was that picture taken? Can we identify the house? And I want to know everything you can find out about Gorbut from these pictures. Are any of them family members? Wives? Children?"

"Good work Dawes," he flashed her an admiring glance. "Nice to see you're still using your talents to get intel about the local community." He nodded at Captain Newlish. "This information may lead us to the SAM, but it might also be very useful if we have to negotiate."

"But," he glanced back at Molly, "I'm going to hand this over to Fingers to research now."

Oh fucking typical, though Dawes, resentfully.

"I know you'd probably prefer to do it yourself, but it's sensible to give it to Fingers. You need to prioritise medical duties while we're one man down with the potential for more shelling injuries and… he paused "I'm sorry to say, but realistically Finger's will have a better response from the Afghan police."

He was her Captain. He didn't have to explain his decisions to her. That was above and beyond. In normal circumstances she'd just be expected to follow his orders.

"Yes Boss."

She thought she'd kept the reluctance out of her voice, but he must have heard it because he looked over with some sort of understanding in his eyes and said softly: "I'm sorry Molly. It's high priority".

"No need to explain Captain James," conceded Newlish with a mollifying smile at Molly. "Dawes fully understands her responsibilities and limitations".

'Limitations! What, the limitations of being a woman working in a sexist country?' thought Molly. 'Well fuck him! He's might be my Captain, but he's sexist mansplainer and for that, fuck him!

In any case Charles wasn't listening. He was already pulling back the sticky pages and deftly removing photos from the album: "Fingers copy these first. I don't want to lose anything that might help us identify where that SAM is located."

Within seconds the album had been dismantled and Molly felt an irrational anger as she collected the discarded photos of the women and children, which had fluttered, unwanted to the floor.

* * *

'Why do I feel so upset about this? Why?' she asked herself later as she tucked the photos under her pillow. 'I don't know this woman, and she should mean nothing to me, and yet… I can't stop wondering what happened to her and her children.'

'She's got nothing. Probably not even a name to most of these people. And I've taken away her memories and now, because of yet more men, I'll never get them photos back to her," Molly scrubbed away an unexpected tear and then laughed.

"Christ Dawes, get a grip!" she chided out loud. "It's only hormones."

"Aw, are you on a ' _code red'_ Molly?" asked Maisie unexpectedly from the bed behind her.

"What?" Molly swung around.

Maisie got off her bed and came to sit next to Molly. "You know, 'Bloody Mary'… 'on the rag'? It really gets me down sometimes."

Molly snapped: "As it happens…" She paused, realising she was being rude. It's just… this… this place. The _Alamo_. Being here day after day… It's depressing."

"Too right. Don't let it get you down though Molly. Got to keep our spirits up."

"If I have to stay here for much longer I'll probably end up three stops down from Plaistow!"

Maisie looked flummoxed: "Three stops down from where?"

"Plaistow. Three stops down from Plaistow on the district line is Barking."

Maisie looked embarrassed: "I still don't get it."

"You know, like 'Barking mad'… 'Ere you might have the accent, but you ain't much of a Cockney are you Richards!"

"Nah. I was born in Old St, but me and my mum moved to Colchester when my dad left and all them piss artists moved in."

"Colchester? Where's that then?"

"Essex. We speak _Estuary_ down there. Not that cockney slang. It's like another… language" Maisie picked up a photo of the woman off the bed. "Who's this then?"

"She's the Malik's wife."

"Blimey. She can't even take off her Burka for a photograph. How crap is that?"

"Totally shit. And this is probably her daughter, see…" Molly started to explain.

"Mind you," interrupted Maisie with a cheeky giggle. "I'd love to wear one of those burka things. Imagine, I could parade down Colchester High St naked underneath one and no one would know!"

* * *

Hi everyone, sorry this chapter got delayed by a lot of RL work! As usual, thanks for your nice comments and encouragement! best wishes Dancex


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